


Good News in Theory

by LokiOfSassgaard



Series: Sex is Boring [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-02
Updated: 2011-05-02
Packaged: 2018-05-28 21:31:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6346114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LokiOfSassgaard/pseuds/LokiOfSassgaard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With all other avenues exhausted, the only course of action remaining is to work through it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good News in Theory

Sherlock got the text long before he ever even saw the results of the test. Naturally, Mycroft had been made aware of Sherlock’s actions, though he did mercifully seem to remain in the dark as to his motive.

I trust that you’d tell me if anything were wrong.  
Mycroft

Sherlock wanted to throttle him. This was none of Mycroft’s business. That Mycroft regularly spied on him was nothing new, but the man very rarely admitted to it.

Why had he done that, actually? Sherlock worked out from the wording of the text that the results had come back normal. Otherwise, Mycroft would have been talking about possible treatments.

But normal. Good news in theory, but ultimately another dead end. Hormone screening had effectively ruled out every medical avenue he had to explore. There was no reason he should have been having these issues. No physical reason, anyway. He’d been putting off the psychological train of investigation for as lo ng as he could, but it seemed now that he had no choice.

He definitely did not want to see another useless therapist. The last one hadn’t worked out well at all. Just thinking about it made Sherlock want to slap three or four nicotine patches on his arm, but as he reached for the box, he reminded himself that he’d already used his two for the day, and was determined to keep it that way. John had already told him that it was safe for him to quit all together if he wanted, now that his system had time to adjust to the lower amounts of the chemical in his blood, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to. If John told him to, he would. Without question. But John hadn’t told him to. Only said that it was safe to.

Maybe just cut down to one a day. That was a compromise, wasn’t it?

He was on the sofa, silently going through every available option again to make sure he hadn’t missed anything, when John wandered through the door four hours earlier than anticipa ted. Most likely wasn’t needed at the surgery. The only time that ever happened was when he’d been called in to cover for someone in Wimbledon, because their doctors couldn’t keep a schedule if their lives depended on it. He wouldn’t have fallen asleep again, because they had stayed in the night before. Unless John was getting very quiet with his nightmares.

Doubtful.

“I think I may actually be defective,” Sherlock declared.

John stopped in his tracks to throw Sherlock a confused look. “Whatever conversation we’ve been having, I wasn’t here for most of it,” he said.

“I’m aware of that,” Sherlock told him. “I’m simply stating a conclusion I reached in your absence.”

“That you’re defective?” asked John, fishing for clarification. “What led up to this?”

Sherlock reached for the unopened envelope that had been delivered with the day’s post and tossed it at John. He closed his eyes, listening as John tore open the envelope to read the test results.

“Right,” he said. “Well, that’s good. Means you don’t have to deal with any sort of messy treatments.”

“It was my last lead,” Sherlock told him. “If there’s nothing physically wrong with me, then it must mean I’m defective. At least if the tests had come back positive, I’d have an answer. But I don’t, which leaves only one conclusion.”

John sighed and moved over to the sofa, having to wrestle Sherlock into a position that would allow them both to sit down.

“It just means that it’s something we have to work on,” John told him.

“I’m not seeing a therapist,” Sherlock said.

“Never said you’d have to. What part of ‘we’ implies bringing a third party into this?” He pulled Sherlock to lie against his chest, letting his arms wrap lightly around the other man’s chest.

“Isn’t that what most people imply when they say they have to work on so mething?” Sherlock asked.

“Is it? I’ve been hanging around you so long, I’ve forgotten what people are like. Do you know any? I’d like to brush up on that.” John moved to kiss the side of Sherlock’s neck, prompting a reflexive hand to rather forcefully push him away.

“Stop it,” Sherlock said.

“That’s not working on this,” John told him.

“Leave me alone. I don’t want to right now,” Sherlock said.

“Do you ever?” asked John.

“No,” Sherlock said before he realised that John probably hadn’t meant for that question to be answered. He could feel John tensing underneath him, and tried to arrange himself so John would be forced to stay. As long as there was no kissing or unwanted wandering hands, Sherlock did rather like the time they spent on the sofa together.

Instead, John pushed back, using a surprising amount of strength to move Sherlock off of him.

“Get off. I have things to do,” he said .

Sherlock debated fighting it, but realised that doing so might make him seem rather needy. No. Best to let John have his way on this one.

“Like what?” he asked as he sat up to allow John his escape.

“Things. What do you care?” asked John.

Without another word, John grabbed his coat and walked out of the flat, leaving Sherlock rather stunned in his wake. That John would get tetchy and leave during their conversations was nothing new, but it was happening with an alarming frequency. The smallest things seemed to set him on edge, and it would only take the lightest of pushes to send him over completely.

Sherlock suspected that it had to do with a lack of sex, as it had by now been nearly two months since their rather awkward first attempt, but John hadn’t been having sex before. Why should this be any different? Surely being close to someone without having sex is better than being alone without having sex. This should be better than wha t John was used to.

Was it really that important an aspect to a relationship? Surely couples who had been together for decades aren’t still together solely because they have sex once a week. Or was Sherlock breaking some sort of rule that no one told him about? If there was one thing Sherlock knew in intimate detail, it was criminal law, and he knew that he was allowed to say no to his partner. Did John know that? He seemed to. Must have. But that didn’t change the fact that he got upset every time Sherlock said it.

Maybe he needed to be reminded.

It was also, Sherlock did have to admit, entirely possible that he was the one being unreasonable. This was clearly something that John had expected as part of the relationship, and he wasn’t happy without it. Was he unhappy enough that he might consider leaving if Sherlock didn’t do these things with him?

Was that where John was off at that moment? Was ‘things’ code for looking for someone else?

What if he found someone else?

No. It wasn’t an idea Sherlock wanted to entertain. John was just off doing something on his own. He didn’t always take Sherlock with him when he left, just like Sherlock didn’t always take John. They were allowed to do things separately.

All the same, Sherlock had to know. He reached for his BlackBerry on the table and composed a frantic text. He didn’t expect John to answer right away, but with each minute that passed, he found himself drawing that much closer to panic. What if he was out finding someone else?

It was nearly twenty minutes later when John replied, declaring that he was on his way back home. Sherlock debated for a moment asking John where he had been, but decided instead to ignore the text, just as John had ignored his.

It was only a matter of seconds before he changed his mind. John had left because Sherlock wasn’t doing enough for him. For John, being told something was never enough; h e needed to be shown. Needed some sort of proof.

That was something Sherlock could very much appreciate.

He stared at John’s text for a few moments, tapping his thumb against the screen as he tried to work out the best way to show John that he was trying.

I’ll put the kettle on.  
SH

John’s reply came much more quickly, in the form of what could only have been a typo. But when he failed to correct the simple mathematical equation to something that actually made contextual sense, Sherlock pocketed his phone and quickly made his way to the kitchen. The kettle was in several pieces on the worktop, but being the one to have broken it down (again), Sherlock was able to quickly reassemble the thing and fill it with water. He had to decide which device would have to be unplugged to make room for the kettle, eventually settling on the grow lamp. That particular experiment could survive for a few minutes on its own.

He was standing over the kettle, still waiting for it to do anything other than sit on the worktop when John wandered back into the kitchen, peering in rather cautiously.

“I think we need a new kettle,” Sherlock declared, daring to poke the thing with his finger. Unsurprisingly, his prodding did nothing to make it function as a normal kettle.

“You mean you broke this one and Mrs Hudson’s going to make you buy her a new one?” asked John.

“I didn’t break it,” Sherlock defended. “I failed to reassemble it in the correct order.”

“You broke it,” John said.

“A bit.” He pulled the cord from the socket. “I wanted to do something for you.”

John leaned into Sherlock’s shoulder, holding back a light laugh. “Do you even know where the tea is?” he asked.

Sherlock pulled away from him and straightened his posture. “Of course I do,” he said.

A wry little smile played on John’s face. “Show me,” he said simply.

He would play dirty. Sherlock opened several doors, peering into the cupboards for anything vaguely tea-shaped. He wasn’t even sure what colour the tin was.

“Nice try,” John said as he opened a drawer. He pulled out a small Tupperware containing about a dozen teabags and put it on the worktop.

“Pointless anyway, because the kettle doesn’t work,” Sherlock reminded him.

“Because you broke it,” John said, pushing Sherlock out of the kitchen and toward the sitting room.

“Fine, I’ll go get a new one.” Sherlock moved to find his shoes, but was stopped by John’s hand lightly touching his elbow.

And he accused Sherlock of sending mixed signals.

“Hang on,” he said. “Before you leave this house, when was the last time you slept? I don’t want another call because you fell asleep in a supermarket again.”

Sherlock had to think about the question, before answering by way of a shrug. “What day’s it?” he asked.

“You’ll fetch a new one in the morning,” John said as he steered him toward the sofa. “After we talk about why you’re not sleeping again.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but allowed himself to be herded toward the sofa. He waited until John settled onto the far end and turned on the telly before allowing himself to get comfortable, which included stretching his legs out to rest over John’s lap. The sofa was entire too small for just him, let alone the two of them, but it was infinitely more comfortable than his bed.

As he felt John’s fingers tracing light patterns along his instep, Sherlock realised why he hadn’t been sleeping again. John had some form of angry or upset with him over increasingly trivial things, which left them giving one another a wide berth. He’d become trained to rely on their close time together to get any real sleep.

God help him, he had formed a co-dependent relationship without even realising it. And perh aps more alarming, he couldn’t be bothered to care. So long as John continued to touch him just for the sake of personal contact, Sherlock was happy to ignore any label that could be attached to him.

He had far worse things to worry about, besides. Like working out where he was supposed to find Mrs Hudson a replacement kettle.


End file.
